Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

Whilst now with rapture burning,
Thy smiles and sighs returning,
Say wilt thou love be mine?
See—the songsters’ wings are spreading,
Each grove and arbour threading,
To seek their Valentine.

Then while all hearts are striving,
And at Love’s Arts conniving,
Send offerings to his shrine.
May we, our pledge renewing,
Our patrons favor wooing,
Prove their true Valentine.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIV. FEBRUARY, 1849. No. 2.

Table of Contents

The Young Lawyer’s First Case
The World
Christine
The Ennuyee
The Man in the Moon
The Mirror of Life
To the Thames, At Norwich, Conn.
The Song of the Axe
The Wager of Battle
Requiem
St. Valentine’s Day
The Past
A Song
A Recollection of Mendelssohn
Jasper Leech
My Bird Has Flown
Lessons in German
The Phantasmagoria
The Beating of the Heart
Doctor Sian Seng
The Highland Laddie’s Farewell
A Twilight Lay
The Chamber of Life and Death
Earth-Life
Eleonore Eboli
History of the Costume of Men
Wild-Birds of America
The Old Year and the New
The Lost Notes
An Hour Among the Dead
Gems From Late Readings
Review of New Books
Editor’s Table
The Bells of Ostend

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

* * * * *

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

* * * * *

VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1849. No. 2.

* * * * *

THE YOUNG LAWYER’S FIRST CASE.

BY JOHN TODD.

In one of those long, low, one-story, unpainted houses which succeeded the log-houses in Vermont as the second generation of human habitations, lay a sick woman. She knew, and all her friends knew, that her days were numbered, and that when she left that room it would be in her winding-sheet for the grave. Yet her face and her spirit were calm, and the tones of her voice, like those of the dying swan, were sweeter than those of life. She had taken an affectionate leave of all her children, in faith and hope, save one—her eldest son—a mother’s boy and a mother’s pride. By great economy and unwearied industry this son had been sent to college. He was a mild, inoffensive, pale-faced one; but the bright eye did not belie the spirit that dwelt in a casket so frail. He had been sent for, but did not reach home till the day before his mother’s death. As soon as she knew of his coming, she immediately had him called to her room, and left alone with her. Long and tearful was their conversation. Sweet and tender was this last interview between a mother and son who had never lacked any degree of confidence on either side.

“You know, my son, that it has always been my most earnest wish and prayer that you should be a preacher of the gospel, and thus a benefactor to the souls of men. In choosing the law, you are aware, you have greatly disappointed these hopes.”

“I know it, dear mother; and I have done it, not because I like the law so much, but because I dare not undertake a work so sacred as the ministry, conscious as I am that I am not qualified in mind, or body, or spirit, for the work. If I dared do it, for _your_ sake, if for no other reason, I would do it.”

“In God’s time, my dear son, in God’s time, I trust you will. I neither urge it, nor blame you. But promise me now, that you will never undertake any cause which you think is unjust, and that you will never aid in screening wrong from coming to light and punishment.”

The son said something about every man’s having the right to have his case presented in the best light he could.

“I know what you mean,” said she; “but I know that if a man has violated the laws of God and man, he has no _moral_ right to be shielded from punishment. If he has confessions and explanations to offer, it is well. But for you to take his side, and for money, to shield him from the laws, seems to me no better than if, for money, you concealed him from the officers of justice, under the plea that every man had a right to get clear of the law if he could. But I am weak and cannot talk, my son; and yet _if_ you will give me the solemn promise, it seems as if I should die easier. But you must do as you think best.”

The young man bent over his dying mother, and with much emotion, gave her the solemn promise which she desired. Tender was the last kiss she gave him, warm the thanks which she expressed, and sweet the smile which she wore, and which was left on her countenance after her spirit had gone up to meet the smiles of the Redeemer.

Some months after the death of his mother, the young man left the shadows of the Green Mountains, and toward a more sunny region, in a large and thrifty village, he opened his office; the sign gave his name, and under it, the words, “Attorney at Law.” There he was found early and late, his office clean and neat, and his few books studied over and over again, but no business. The first fee which he took was for writing a short letter for his black wood-sawyer, and for that he conscientiously charged only a single sixpence! People spoke well of him, and admired the young man, but still no business came. After waiting till “hope deferred made the heart sick,” one bright morning a coarse-looking, knock-down sort of a young man was seen making toward the office. How the heart of the young lawyer bounded at the sight of his first client! What success, and cases, and fees danced in the vision in a moment!

“Are you the lawyer?” said the man, hastily taking off his hat.

“Yes, sir, that’s my business. What can I do for you?”

“Why, something of a job, I reckon. The fact is I have got into a little trouble, and want a bit of help.” And he took out a five dollar bill, and laid it on the table. The young lawyer made no motion toward taking it.

“Why don’t you take it?” said he. “I don’t call it pay, but to begin with—a kind of wedge—what do you call it?”

“Retention-fee, I presume you mean.”

“Just so, and by your taking it, you are my lawyer. So take it.”

“Not quite so fast, if you please. State your case, and then I will tell you whether or not I take the retention-fee.”

The coarse fellow stared.

“Why, mister, the case is simply this. Last spring I was doing a little business by way of selling meat. So I bought a yoke of oxen of old Maj. Farnsworth. I was to have them for one hundred dollars.”

“Very well—what became of the oxen?”

“Butchered and sold out, to be sure.”

“By you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, where’s the trouble?”

“Why, they say, that as I only gave my note for them, I need not pay it, and I want you to help me to get clear of it.”

“How do you expect me to do it?”

“Plain as day, man; just say, gentlemen of the jury, this young man was not of age when he gave Maj. Farnsworth the note, and therefore, _in law_, the note is good for nothing—that’s all!”

“And was it really so?”

“Exactly.”

“How came Maj. Farnsworth to let you have the oxen?”

“Oh, the godly old man never suspected that I was under age.”

“What did you get for the oxen in selling them out?”

“Why, somewhere between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and forty dollars—they were noble fellows!”

“And so you want me to help you cheat that honest old man out of those oxen, simply because the law, this human imperfection, gives you the opportunity to do it! No, sir; put up your retention-fee. I promised my dying mother never to do such a thing, and I will starve first. And as for you—if I wanted to help you to go to the state’s prison, I could take no course so sure as to do what you offer to pay me for doing. And, depend upon it, the lawyer who does help you, will be your worst enemy. Plead minority! No; go, sir, and pay for your oxen honestly and live and act on the principle, that let what will come, you will be an honest man.”

The coarse young man snatched up his bill, and muttering something about seeing Squire Snapall, left the office.

So he lost his first fee and his first case. He felt poor and discouraged, when left alone in the office; but he felt that he had done right. His mother’s voice seemed to whisper, “Right, my son, right.” The next day he was in old Maj. Farnsworth’s, and saw a pile of bills lying upon the table. The good old man said he had just received them for a debt which he expected to lose, but a kind Providence had interposed in his behalf. The young lawyer said nothing, but his mother’s voice seemed to come again, “Right, my son, right.”

Some days after this a man called in the evening, and asked the young man to defend him in a trial just coming on.

“What is your case?”

“They accuse me of stealing a bee-hive.”

“A bee-hive!—surely that could not be worth much!”

“No, but the bees and the honey were in it.”

“Then you really did steal it?”

“Squire are you alone here—nobody to hear?”

“I am all alone.”

“Are you bound by oath to keep the secrets of your clients?”

“Certainly I am.”

“Well, then, ’twixt you and me, I did have a dab at that honey. There was more than seventy pounds! But you can clear me.”

“How can I?”

“Why, Ned Hazen has agreed to swear that I was with him fishing at Squanicook Pond that night.”

“So, by perjury, you hope to escape punishment. What can you afford to pay a lawyer who will do his best?”

The man took out twenty dollars. It was a great temptation. The young lawyer staggered for a moment—but only for a moment.

“No, sir, I will not undertake your case. I will not try to shield a man whom I know to be a villain from the punishment which he deserves. I will starve first.”

The man with an oath bolted out of the office, and made his way to Snapall’s office. The poor lawyer sat down alone, and could have cried. But a few dollars were left to him in the world, and what to do when they were gone, he knew not. In a few moments the flush and burning of the face was gone, as if he had been fanned by the wings of angels, and again he heard his own mother’s voice, “Right, my son, right.”

Days and even weeks passed away, and no new client made his appearance. The story of his having refused to take fees and defend his clients got abroad, and many were the gibes concerning his folly. Lawyer Snapall declared that such weakness would ruin any man. The multitude went against the young advocate. But a few noted and remembered it in his favor.

On entering his office one afternoon, the young man found a note lying on his table. It read thus,

“Mrs. Henshaw’s compliments to Mr. Loudon, and requests, if it be not too much trouble, that he would call on her at his earliest convenience, as she wishes to consult him professionally, and with as much privacy as may be.

“_Rose Cottage, June 25th._”

How his hand trembled while he read the note. It might lead to business—it might be the first fruits of an honorable life. But who is Mrs. Henshaw? He only knew that a friend by that name, a widow lady, had lately arrived on a visit to the family who resided in that cottage. “At his earliest convenience.” If he should go at once, would it not look as if he were at perfect leisure? If he delayed, would it not be a dishonesty which he had vowed never to practice? He whistled a moment, took up his hat, and went toward “Rose Cottage.” On reaching the house, he was received by a young lady of modest, yet easy manner. He inquired for Mrs. Henshaw, and the young lady said,

“My mother is not well, but I will call her. Shall I carry your name, sir?”

“Loudon, if you please.”

The young lady cast a searching, surprised look at him, and left the room. In a few moments the mother, a graceful, well-bred lady of about forty, entered the room. She had a mild; sweet face, and a look that brought his own mother so vividly to mind, that the tears almost started in his eyes. For some reason, Mrs. Henshaw appeared embarrassed.

“It is Mr. Loudon, the lawyer, I suppose,” said she.

“At your service, madam.”

“Is there any other gentleman at the Bar of your name, sir?”

“None that I know of. In what way can you command my services, madam?”

The lady colored. “I am afraid, sir, there is some mistake. I need a lawyer to look at a difficult case, a man of _principle_, whom I can trust. You were mentioned to me—but—I expected to see an older man.”

“If you will admit me,” said Loudon, who began to grow nervous in his turn, “so far into your confidence as to state the case, I think I can promise not to do any hurt, even if I do no good. And if on the whole, you think it best to commit it to older and abler hands, I will charge you nothing and engage not to be offended.”

The mother looked at the daughter, and saw on her face the look of confidence and hope.

The whole afternoon was spent in going over the case, examining papers, and the like. As they went along, Loudon took notes and memoranda with his pencil.

“He will never do,” thought Mrs. Henshaw. “He takes every thing for granted and unquestioned; and though I don’t design to mislead him, yet it seems to me, as if he would take the moon to be green cheese, were I to tell him so. He will never do;” and she felt that she had wasted her time and strength. How great then was her surprise when Loudon pushed aside the bundles of papers, and looking at his notes, again went over the whole ground, sifting and scanning every point, weighing every circumstance, pointing out the weak places, tearing and throwing off the rubbish, discarding what was irrelevant, and placing the whole affair in a light more luminous and clear than even she had ever seen it before. Her color came and went as her hopes rose and fell. After he had laid it open to her, he added, with unconscious dignity,

“Mrs. Henshaw, I think yours is a cause of right and justice. Even if there should be a failure to convince a jury so that law would decide in your favor, there are so many circumstantial proofs, that I have no doubt that justice will be with you. If you please to entrust it to me, I will do the best I can, and am quite sure I shall work harder than if I were on the opposite side.”

“What do you say, Mary?” said the mother to the daughter. “You are as much interested as I. Shall we commit it to Mr. Loudon?”

“You are the best judge, but it seems to me that he understands the case better than any one you have ever talked with.”

Loudon thanked Mary with his eyes, but for some reason or other, hers were cast down upon the figures of the carpet, and she did not see him.

“Well, Mr. Loudon, we will commit the whole affair to you. If you succeed we shall be able to reward you; and if you do not, we shall be no poorer than we have been.”

For weeks and months Loudon studied his case. He was often at Rose Cottage to ask questions on some point not quite so clear. He found they were very agreeable—the mother and the daughter—aside from the law-suit, and I am not sure that he did not find occasion to ask questions oftener than he would have done, had it been otherwise.

The case, briefly was this. Mr. Henshaw had been an active, intelligent and high-minded man of business. He had dealt in iron, had large furnaces at different places, and did business on an average with three hundred different people a day. Among others, he had dealings with a man by the name of Brown—a plausible, keen, and as many thought, an unprincipled man. But Henshaw, without guile himself, put all confidence in him. In a reverse of times—such as occur once in about ten years, let who will be President—their affairs became embarrassed and terribly perplexed. In order to extricate his business, it was necessary for Henshaw to go to a distant part of the land, in company with Brown. There he died—leaving a young widow, and an only child, Mary, then about ten years old, and his business in a condition as bad as need be. By the kindness of the creditors their beautiful home called Elm Glen, was left to Mrs. Henshaw and her little girl, while the rest of the property went to pay the debts. The widow and her orphan kept the place of their joys and hopes in perfect order, and everybody said “it didn’t look like a widow’s house.” But within four years of the death of Mr. Henshaw, Brown returned. He had been detained by broken limbs and business, he said. What was the amazement of the widow to have him set up a claim for Elm Glen, as his property! He had loaned Mr. Henshaw money, he said—he had been with him in sickness and in death; and the high-minded Henshaw had made his will on his death-bed, and bequeathed Elm Glen to Brown, as a payment for debts. The will was duly drawn, signed with Mr. Henshaw’s own signature, and also by two competent witnesses. Every one was astonished at the claim—at the will—at every thing pertaining to it. It was contested in court, but the evidence was clear, and the will was set up and established. Poor Mrs. Henshaw was stripped of everything. With a sad heart she packed up her simple wardrobe, and taking her child, left the village and went to a distant State to teach school. For six years she had been absent, and for six years had Brown enjoyed Elm Glen. No, not enjoyed it, for he enjoyed nothing. He lived in it; but the haggard look—the frequent appeal to the bottle—the jealous feelings which were ever uppermost—and his coarse, profane conversation, showed that he was wretched. People talked, too, of his lonely hours, his starting up in his sleep, his clenching his fist in his dreams, and defying “all hell” to prove it, and the like.

Suddenly and privately, Mrs. Henshaw returned to her once loved village. She had obtained some information by which she hoped to bring truth to light, for she had never believed that her husband ever made such a will in favor of Brown. To prove that this will was a forgery was what Loudon was now to attempt. An action was commenced, and Brown soon had notice of the warfare now to be carried on against him. He raved and swore, but he also laid aside his cups, and went to work to meet the storm like a man in the full consciousness of the justice of his cause. There was writing and riding, posting and sending writs—for both sides had much at stake. It was the last hope for the widow. It was the first case for young Loudon. It was victory or state’s prison for Brown. The community, one and all took sides with Mrs. Henshaw. If a bias _could_ reach a jury, it must have been in her favor. Mr. Snapall was engaged for Brown, and was delighted to find that he had only that “white-faced boy” to contend with; and the good public felt sorry that the widow had not selected a man of some age and experience; but then they said, “women will have their own way.”

The day of trial came on. Great was the excitement to hear the great “will case,” and every horse in the region was hitched somewhere near the courthouse.

In rising to open the case, young Loudon was embarrassed; but modesty always meets with encouragement. The court gave him patient attention, and soon felt that it was deserved. In a clear, concise, and masterly manner, he laid open the case just as it stood in his own mind, and proceeded with the evidence to prove the will to be a forgery. It was easy to show the character of Brown to be one of great iniquity, and that for him to do this was only in keeping with that general character. He attempted to prove that the will could not be genuine, because one of its witnesses on his death-bed had _confessed_ that it was a forgery, and that he and his friend had been hired by Brown to testify and swear to its being genuine. Here he adduced the affidavit of a deceased witness, taken in full before James Johnson, Esq. Justice of the Peace, and acknowledged by him. So far all was clear, and when the testimony closed it seemed clear that the case was won. But when it came Mr. Snapall’s turn, he demolished all these hopes by proving that though James Johnson, Esq. had signed himself Justice of the Peace, yet he was no magistrate, inasmuch as his commission had expired the very day before he signed the paper, and although he had been re-appointed, yet he had not been legally _qualified_ to act as a magistrate—that he might or might not have supposed himself to be qualified to take an affidavit; and that the law, for very wise reasons, demanded that an affidavit should be taken only by a sworn magistrate. He was most happy, he said, to acknowledge the cool assurance of his young brother in the law; and the only difficulty was that he had proved nothing, except that his tender conscience permitted him to offer as an affidavit a paper that was in law not worth a straw, if any better than a forgery itself.

There was much sympathy felt for poor Loudon, but he took it very coolly and seemed no way cast down. Mr. Snapall then brought forward his other surviving witness—a gallows-looking fellow, but his testimony was clear, decided and consistent. If he was committing perjury, it was plain that he had been well-drilled by Snapall. Loudon kept his eye upon him with the keenness of the lynx. And while Snapall was commenting upon the case with great power, and while Mrs. Henshaw and Mary gave up all for lost, it was plain that Loudon, as he turned over the will, and looked at it again and again, was thinking of something else besides what Snapall was saying. He acted something as a dog does when he feels sure he is near the right track of the game, though he dare not yet bark.

When Snapall was through, Loudon requested that the witness might again be called to the stand. But he was so mild, and kind, and timid, that it seemed as if he was the one about to commit perjury.

“You take your oath that this instrument, purporting to be the will of Henry Henshaw, was signed by him in your presence?”

“I do.”

“And you signed it with your own hand as witness at the time?”

“I did.”

“What is the date of the will?”

“June 18, 1830.”

“When did Henshaw die?”

“June 22, 1830.”

“Were you living in the village where he died at the time?”

“I was.”

“How long had you lived there?”

“About four years, I believe, or somewhere thereabouts.”

Here Loudon handed the judge a paper, which the judge unfolded and laid before him on the bench.

“Was that village a large or a small one?”

“Not very large—perhaps fifty houses.”

“You knew all these houses well, I presume?”

“I did.”

“Was the house in which Mr. Henshaw died, one story or two?”

“Two, I believe.”

“But you _know_, don’t you? Was he in the lower story or in the chamber when you went to witness the deed?”

Here the witness tried to catch the eye of Snapall, but Loudon very civilly held him to the point. At length he said, “In the chamber.”

“Will you inform the court what was the color of the house?”

“I think, feel sure, it wasn’t painted, but didn’t take particular notice.”

“But you saw it every day for four years, and don’t you know?”

“It was not painted.”

“Which side of the street did it stand?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Can you remember which way the street ran?”

“It ran east and west.”

“The street ran east and west—the house two story, and unpainted, and Mr. Henshaw was in the chamber when you witnessed the will. Well, I have but two things more which I will request you to do. The first is to take that pen and write your name on that piece of paper on the table.”

The witness demurred, and so did Snapall. But Loudon insisted upon it.

“I can’t, my hand trembles so,” said the witness.

“Indeed! but you wrote a bold, powerful hand when you signed that will. Come, you _must_ try, just to oblige us.”

After much haggling and some bravado, it came out that he couldn’t write, and never learned, and that he had requested Mr. Brown to sign the paper for him!

“Oh, ho!” said Loudon. “I thought you swore that _you_ signed it yourself. Now one thing more, and _I_ have done with you. Just let me take the pocket-book in your pocket. I will open it here before the court, and neither steal nor lose a paper.”

Again the witness refused, and appealed to Snapall; but that worthy man was grinding his teeth and muttering something about the witness going to the devil!

The pocket-book came out, and in it was a regular discharge of the bearer, John Ordin, from four years imprisonment in the Pennsylvania Penitentiary, and dated June 15, 1831, and signed by Mr. Wood, the worthy warden.

The young advocate now took the paper which he had handed to the judge, and showed the jury, that the house in which Mr. Henshaw died was situated in a street running north and south—that it was a one-story house—that it was _red_, the only red house in the village, and moreover, that he died in a front room of the lower story.

There was a moment’s silence, and then a stifled murmur of joy all over the room. Brown’s eyes looked blood-shot; the witness looked sullen and dogged, and Mr. Snapall tried to look very indifferent. He made no defence. The work was done. A very brief, decided charge was given by the judge, and, without leaving their seats, the jury convicted Brown of forgery!

“That young dog is keen, any how!” said Snapall.

“When his conscience tells him he is on the side of justice,” said Loudon, overhearing the remark.

It was rather late in the evening before Loudon called on his clients to congratulate them on the termination of their suit, and the recovery of Elm Glen. He was met by Mary, who frankly gave him her hand, and with tears thanked and praised him, and felt sure they could never sufficiently reward him. Loudon colored, and seemed more troubled than when in the court. At length he said abruptly, “Miss Henshaw, you and your mother can _now_ aid me. There is a friend of yours—a young lady, whose hand I wish to obtain. I am alone in the world, poor, and unknown. This is my first law-case, and when I may have another is more than I know.”

Mary turned pale, and faintly promised that she and her mother would aid him to the extent of their power. Then there was a pause, and she felt as if she, the only one who was supposed to be unagitated and cool, must speak.

“Who is the fortunate friend of mine?”

“Don’t you suspect?”

“Indeed, I do not.”

“Well, here is her portrait,” handing her a miniature case. She touched a spring and it flew open, and in a little mirror, _she saw her own face_! Now the crimson came over her beautiful face, and the tears came thick and fast, and she trembled; but I believe she survived the shock; for the last time I was that way, I saw the conscientious young lawyer and his charming wife living at Elm Glen; and I heard them speak of _his first law-suit_!

* * * * *

THE WORLD.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

What wiser is the world in this bright age—
What better than in the darkened days of old?
Survey the Past, its blotted scroll unfold;
Compare it with the Present’s golden page—
It is no worse; the world was cruel then,
And hearts were trampled on, and spirits bled,
And tears and blood like summer rain were shed,
And men were what they always will be—Men!
Experience teaches naught, man will not heed
And profit by the lessons. Fools can read;
The task is said by rote; we do not learn,
But live in ancient ignorance and crime.
There is no hope—the Future will but turn
The old sands in the failing glass of Time!

* * * * *

CHRISTINE.

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.

Bright dreams were mine in life’s young day,
Too bright, too fair to last,
Fresh flow’rets sprung beside my way,
And fragrance round it cast;
And hopes as radiant as the dyes
That angel-artists spread,
Upon the western sunset skies,
To my young heart were wed.

Bright days, sweet days, forever gone!
Ye can return no more,
I’m doomed to tread the sands alone
That skirt life’s desert shore!
Afar, upon the ocean wide,
My bark of hope went down,
I saw the angel leave my side,
And all things on me frown.

But there are paintings hanging yet
In memory’s ghostly halls,
And bright young faces looking down
Upon me from the walls.
The gentle smile that thrilled my soul,
In life’s young break-of-day,
The small white hands once clasped in mine,
Are pictured there for aye.

There is a form, I see it now,
More radiant far than all,
The full, dark eye, the snowy brow
That held my heart in thrall.
But, O, that voice, so low and sweet!
I ne’er shall hear it more;
The fond, warm heart hath ceased to beat—
My dream of bliss is o’er.

And still another picture there—
A being young and bright;
The captive sunbeams in her hair,
A form of love and light;
The deep blue tints that stain the sky,
When summer bids it gleam,
Are mirrored in her laughing eye,
Like violets in the stream.

I deemed those forms forever fled
From time’s bleak desert shore,
And that the light upon me shed,
Could visit me no more.
But late I saw a vision bright,
And fair as those of old,
That taught to me this lesson trite—
The heart can ne’er grow cold!

O, charming, charming young Christine
Long years may pass away,
But cannot seize the love I ween,
Of young life’s joyous day!
O, would some gem like thee were mine
Upon my breast to wear,
Through Sorrow’s dreary hour to shine,
And light the night of Care;

My glance upon mankind should fall
Contented, happy, free,
And I should richer feel than all,
My only treasure _thee_!
But, O, my lot is wild and drear,
And sad the night-winds moan;
Upon life’s tree the leaves are sere,
And I am all alone.

* * * * *

THE ENNUYEE.

BY MRS. S. A. LEWIS.

It hath been said, “for all who die,
There is a tear;
Some pining, bleeding heart to sigh,
O’er every bier;”
But in that hour of pain and dread,
Who will draw near,
Around my humble couch, and shed
One farewell tear?

Who watch life’s last dim parting ray,
In deep despair,
And soothe my spirit on its way,
With holy prayer?
What mourner round my bier will come,
In weeds of wo,
And follow me to my long home,
Solemn and slow?

When lying on my clayey bed,
In icy sleep,
Who there, by pure affection led,
Will come and weep?
And by the moon implant the rose
Upon my breast,
And bid it cheer my dark repose,
My lowly rest?

Could I but know when I am sleeping
Low in the ground,
One faithful heart would there be keeping
Watch all night round,
As if some gem lay shrined beneath
That sod’s cold gloom,
’Twould mitigate the pangs of death,
And light the tomb.

Yes! in that hour, if I could feel,
From halls of glee
And Beauty’s presence, one would steal
In secresy,
And come and sit and weep by me
In night’s deep noon;
Oh! I would ask of memory
No other boon.

But, ah! a lonelier fate is mine—
A deeper wo;
From all I love in youth’s sweet time
I soon must go,
Drawn round me my pale robes of white
In a dark spot,
To sleep through death’s long, dreamless night,
Lone and forgot.

* * * * *

THE MAN IN THE MOON.

A TRUE STORY.

(DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND MARTHA W. B——.)

BY CAROLINE C——.

Away with weary cares and themes!
Luring wide the moonlit gate of dreams!
Leave free once more the land which teems
With wonders and romances!

I know that _thou_ wilt judge aright
Of all that makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night
Of clouded Melancholy!
—J. G. WHITTIER.

I fancy, my good reader, that you are about as familiar with the physical appearance of this exalted personage, the far-famed Man in the Moon, as is your most obedient. That you have gazed upon him with love-kindled eyes many and many a witching summer night, I have not the shadow of a doubt—that you have often lamented the provoking imperfectness of your vision, which presents such insurmountable difficulties and obstructions in the way to your beholding clearly what manner of man he truly is, I cannot have much hesitation in believing; reasoning as I do, from my extensive knowledge of what passes in the minds of other people, and from the thoughts and feelings I have had myself in regard to the peculiar personalities of this mysterious gentleman.

Until recently I never indulged in the hope of being counted among the benefactors of my race, but, my fair countrywomen, I hope I do not presume too much, when I say that I shall hereafter merit this honor at your hands, for am I not going to speak to you of events which, wonderful as they are, have hitherto never come to the knowledge of our present generation? I cannot conscientiously make known to you the mysterious means by which I became cognizant of the following events, yet do I hold myself clear of any breach of confidence when I lay before you these wondrous facts, upon the truth of which you may rely, on my veracity as a story-teller!

Long, long ago there lived in a far country, among the mountains, which towered to heaven much in the manner of mountains now, a young maiden, who must certainly have been one of the progenitors of “The Sinless Child;” for in personal beauty, and in excellence and purity of mind, this girl was unsurpassed, perhaps unequaled in her day. A “rare and radiant maiden” was she, albeit unaccomplished and unlearned.

Kind, generous and affectionate was Rose May, having withal such a reasonable amount of spirited independence in her nature, as a child born and bred among the mountain wilds would be like to have.

It was a glorious dwelling-place, that of my heroine! Grant May, her father, was a shepherd, a rugged man of middle age, whose furrowed face bore testimony to the fact, that he had encountered and weathered many a hard storm in the course of his life. A true son of the mountains was he; for three or four generations back his fathers had lived, shepherds, in these same wild heights, and I doubt much if _this_ son of his father could ever have breathed the warmer and gentler air of a less elevated home. Occasionally, but at long intervals, he had wandered away to the world below him, but, like the eagle, his eyry and his affections were fixed amid the towering heights, the rugged scenes and bracing air of the mountains—there was the home for which Nature and a forty years’ residence had fitted him.

The shepherd’s house was built in what, to an eye unaccustomed to such scenes, would seem a most dangerous situation. But it was just to the contrary. Erected on the side of a deep ravine at the bend of the stream, it was sheltered on three sides from the rough, wild winds of winter; and in summer it seemed half buried in the vegetation, which was nowhere on the mountains so abundant as about this place. Above, beneath, and around the cottage there were hardy bushes and flowering shrubs, and towering high above them the pine-trees and the strong-limbed offspring of that rugged clime; and higher still above the flowers, and bushes, and pines, spread the bright deep blue sky, which seemed to rest its mighty arches on the peaks and crags of those great heights.

Yes, it was a glorious home, a noble dwelling-place, that of young Rose May! The voice of the southern wind, when it crept so softly up the mountain, and through the branches of the pines, to kiss her brow, and tell her of the wild beauty of the land from which it wandered, that voice was sweet and welcome music to her ear; but no less loved and welcome was the trumpet-blast of the storm, when it came rushing like a fiend’s voice past her home, or like the challenge of a giant fresh from the strong fortress where the soldiery of Winter were garrisoned. Rose loved the flowers, the gay bright blossoms which in midsummer bloomed about her home, but more keen was her delight in the grandeur which made her heart to thrill, and her blood to leap wildly through its veins, when on awakening some dreary mornings of winter, she saw the pine-trees loaded with the wealth of glittering icicles, which glowed and blazed with a splendor greater than if the treasuries of all the kings and princes of earth had been melted and poured over those same stately scions of the soil.

Nature in all her phases was beautiful, and welcome to Rose May; but there was something in the heart of the girl which made her sympathize with, and rejoice more keenly in the grand and terrible shapes the great Queen chose during more than eight months of the year to appear in. Therefore Rose May was most truly a daughter, a bright, strong-hearted, noble daughter of the mountains.

They had aptly named this maiden after the queen of the flowers. For though there were many sons in Grant May’s household, Rose was the only daughter, and she was like a rose indeed, the fairest as well as tenderest bud opening beneath the family roof-tree. The bloom of health was on the maiden’s cheek—the glow of health was in her veins and in the calm beating of her heart, which told so steadily “all’s well.”

While Grant May and his sons were absent from their home all day, tending to their many flocks, Rose remained with her mother at home, assisting her with willing hand in the domestic toils; and a steady and invaluable helpmate was she, spinning yarn from the sheep her father called her own, and then knitting the proceeds into stout socks and mittens for them who labored out of doors; and ingeniously contriving numerous garments, whereby to keep the ears, necks and feet of her wild, light-hearted brothers warm in the dreadful winter weather. Rose was, in fact, quite a pattern maid; never complaining, or caring to rest herself even when she was aweary, while there was any work left for her mother to do—and the last thing she ever would have thought to boast of was ignorance of any part of the book of domestic economy—which volume, if you, my dear reader, have had any occasion to thumb, you know very well is not printed with the most readable or understandable type.

Rose May had not many companions. There were, it is true, other families, and numbers of them, scattered among the mountains, but these lived at long distances from each other, and were so circumstanced as to preclude the possibility of frequent visitings. But when these far-off neighbors _did_ meet, it was with the warm and earnest good feeling which people so situated would be likely to entertain for each other. Perhaps their mutual interest was even more sincere and honest, their friendship more generous and truthful, than if they had been able to hold more frequent and familiar communication with each other, partaking, as necessarily they did, each and all, of the mundane nature, for they had scarcely time to discover one another’s particular failings and short-comings.

There were two families, however, whose members maintained a more familiar intimacy with the household of Grant May than the other mountaineers. And for this reason. In both these families there was a son—each, only sons, too, who regarded Rose May with fonder eyes than mere friendly interest would warrant; they both loved her with all the devotion their wild, earnest spirits were capable of—both acknowledged her the queen of the mountain flowers, and the object of their supreme regard.

One of these youths was named Joseph Rancy; his father was the wealthiest of the shepherds—the son would be the old man’s sole heir. This fact alone was one calculated to greatly enhance the merits of the young man—to make him a favored guest—a much sought for friend—and an acceptable suitor, especially in the eyes of parents who had a double eye to their daughter’s happiness and good fortune.

Joseph was a tall, robust, free-spoken youth, with a heart whose honesty forbade his lips ever speaking a word which could not safely be echoed in its recesses. But his very bluntness, though it arose from his honesty of purpose, was not perhaps calculated to make him a great favorite with that class of people _said_ to be lovers of soft words and honied speeches. Joseph was a great favorite with Grant May and with the young brethren of Rose. They liked him for his generosity and daring, and for many noble traits of character he evinced, which I will not now stop to enumerate. The young man knew he stood well in their eyes—but about her whose favor he cared for more than all the rest, he was as yet in a state of doubt and perplexity.

The other youth who visited so frequently Grant May’s cottage was Rob Horn. To say Rob was handsome as a picture would be rather a doubtful compliment; but handsome he was, tall and straight as an Indian, with a bright, smiling face—which (but for a treacherous expression sometimes seen lurking about the mouth) seemed to hail every man a brother and friend; then his hair was black as a raven’s wing, eyes ditto—a becoming bloom on his brown cheeks, graceful, light-hearted, cheerful and companionable—there, you have Rob Horn—is he one you would suppose Rose May might love?

Rob also was an only son—but the great difference between him and Joseph Rancy was, that his father was far from wealthy, having only managed to keep partially “above board,” during all the long years of his earthly pilgrimage.

More than once Rob had roved away from his mountain home to the low-land villages, for his was a restless spirit, and his were roving eyes, that grew weary at times of looking always on the same grand scenes; but still he seemed to retain an unextinguishable affection for his native home, for after a short absence he always returned to his father’s humble cot, with his head full of the scenes he had looked upon in the busy world, but with his curiosity satisfied, and his heart all right toward home. The reason, however, of his invariable return was, that up in the old eagle’s eyry (that is in Grant May’s cottage) there was the little bird whose wild, free-gushing songs was the attractive power which always called him back.

And among the fairer faced damsels who lived in cities, were there none whom Rob thought comparable with the unfettered-by-fashion Rose May? Was there none whose smile made his heart thrill with rapture? Was there not one whose voice was sweeter than an angel’s to his ear, whose words were dearly remembered, and treasured long after they were uttered? Let us see.

Sitting by the blazing fire in Grant May’s kitchen during the long, pleasant winter evenings, and telling to the gathered family the strange fashions and habits of the people with whom he had occasionally mingled—describing to the wondering children modes of life which they in their simplicity had never dreamed of, and to the father the changes which had occurred in public affairs, and to the mother, of the women, whose acquaintance he had made, and of the friends she had known in her girlhood whom he had chanced to meet, it is not to be supposed that he neglected all this while, and thought not at all of the fair young listener, to please whom he would have talked on forever, had that been necessary—no, indeed, she was not forgotten, for during many years Rob had been incessantly at work, forming a telegraph route between his heart and her own; he was even then, during those winter evenings, busy in that great work of his life, and ere long he was determined to prove if the work was perfect—but he delayed sending the first real dispatch—he feared lest it should be uncomprehended and unanswered.

To Rose, Rob had always _seemed_ kind, and noble, and honest—in short, all that man _ought_ to be—all that Joseph Rancy _was_. And a keener insight than she possessed, or many mortals on earth possess, would have been requisite in this case to detect the true gold from the glittering dross. Even when the maiden’s father discovered how all the inclination and affection of his child chose Rob instead of Joseph, he did not see any insurmountable objection lying in the way to the child’s union with the former—and it was only with a sigh for the fortune which might have been his daughter’s, that he gave up all idea of her ever wedding Joseph Rancy.

These two boys had always been the most intimate and best of friends. In earlier days the visits which they planned together to make to their young friend, Rose, were unmarred by jealous thoughts, they were marked as the best of their weekly holydays. No matter how deep the snow might lie on their path toward Grant May’s cot, these appointments, which they made between themselves, were ever regularly kept; for the thought of the bright faces which always gave them such a hearty welcome, and made for them a place by the warm fire with such ready zeal, was a sufficient inducement for them to brave the coldest weather, and the stormiest day.

But as the two grew older, and learned to distinguish between friendliness and love, they did, sorry am I to tell, grow jealous of one another, and at last, before they had concluded it were better to make these visits to Rose alone, each by himself, when Rose had unwittingly spoken in a tone more kindly to one of them, and evinced in any way an innocent and thoughtless preference, the other walked homeward with closed lips and aching heart, and in most unsocial mood.

Joseph Rancy had never dared to speak openly to Rose May of _love_. It was strange that one so stout-hearted as he, with all the advantages of wealth, beside possessing much personal beauty, should falter as he tried to tell a simple mountain maid he loved her! But so it was. The words refused to obey his bidding when he tried to utter them. He had not lived even in those busy places where men and women congregate, yet he _did_ know that “faint heart never won fair lady,” and the very knowledge of that truth but increased his fears. Poor fellow! he doubted his own powers to please, and he knew that Rob Horn was a powerful and much to be feared rival. But Joseph was one who could not easily give up a thought he had cherished for so long. It was a hope it would have been hard for him to relinquish; he could never forget that he had loved Rose May, even though she turned a relentlessly deaf ear to his suit; his heart would never be satisfied with the affection of another woman. And I say but the truth, when I tell you he was worthy of her love—more worthy, if a less dashing lover than Rob Horn. There was less glitter in him, far more real worth, less of admiration, and passion, than deep and earnest love in his thoughts of Rose.

He had placed his hopes upon her returning affection; and it is not agreeable with the natural order of things, to suppose that he would for ever continue irresolute in a case momentous as this; and so, once again, with the express desire to hear his fate decided by her lips, he set out on a summer morning, determined that his resolution _should_ hold out till he had heard his doom from her own voice.

The day was favorable; oh! if the event might only prove so, too! The time also seemed propitious, for before Joseph had half way reached her father’s house, he met Rose May. She was gathering wild-flowers, and when she saw him coming toward her, she gayly bade him assist her in the pleasant work. I know not if those simple people ever studied the “language of flowers;” perhaps, however, the _science_ is a _natural_ one, but this I know, that there was a great preponderance of mountain-roses, buds, and half-opened blossoms, in the flowers Joseph gathered for the little lady. Ah, what a lucky wight! the beautiful summer morning—the silent wood—the naturalness of the offer of his heart with the flowers he gave her! Surely Fate, for once, was propitious! But notwithstanding the chances were with him, and the hour was one of a thousand, Joseph still hesitated and delayed; and it was not till all the flowers were gathered, and Rose had actually set out on her homeward path, that Joseph nerved himself to the pitch requisite.

And, indeed, it was quite a point in his destiny he had reached; the next step you plainly see _was_ an important, an all important one to him. It had been the hope of years that he might win, and one day wed, Rose May; he had lived in that hope; its working out had been one of the most blessed of his thoughts; and now, in five short minutes (perhaps less) he would know if this dear dream were to have fruition, or was it to pass away like the morning dew, leaving him no possibility of ever indulging in it again, that is, with reason—and Joseph was a reasonable youth.

As I have stated, he was an uneducated youth, that is, uneducated in the schools, and ignorant and innocent of polite learning, therefore he knew but one way of discovering a fact, and that was by asking a question point-blank. When Rose was about emerging from the wood, from whence a little path led down the ravine to her father’s house, he paused in the walk, and said quite distinctly,

“Wait a moment, Rose May. I came to ask you a question I have thought to ask you this long time—will you love me—will you be my wife?”

“Yours, Joseph,” replied Rose, as honestly and unreservedly as the question had been put; “Yours—how can you think of such a thing?”

“I _have_ thought of it for years, Rose. You have so many brothers and friends, like enough you have considered me as one of them; but I, I have no sister, Rose, no friend I hold half so dear as you. It does not strike me as such a very strange thing to ask you; if you will only think of it, I do not ask you to answer me to-day. Perhaps when you think it all over, the matter will not seem so strange; and I would not have you answer me in haste, dear Rose.”